


Giving Back A Borrowed Voice

by Angel Ascending (angel_in_ink)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fic Set In The Not To Distant Possible Future, First Kiss, Nightmare, Panic Attack, Vague Spoilers for Episode 43 Of Campaign 2, While Also Having A Flashback, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 08:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16869373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel_in_ink/pseuds/Angel%20Ascending
Summary: The first time Fjord had used Vandren’s voice was when he was passing through the Weiyun Gorge with Jester, on their way into the Empire. He had disguised himself as a younger version of his former captain, and it had seemed only right to talk as he had. The drawl had left his mouth as sweet as the pastries that Jester was so very fond of, and the guards had let them pass without incident.Fjord wakes from a nightmare with a dead man's voice in his mouth.





	Giving Back A Borrowed Voice

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure this will get jossed tomorrow night, but I started to wonder what would happen if Fjord found Vandren's body down in the depths...

The first time Fjord had used Vandren’s voice was when he was passing through the Weiyun Gorge with Jester, on their way into the Empire. He had disguised himself as a younger version of his former captain, and it had seemed only right to talk as he had. The drawl had left his mouth as sweet as the pastries that Jester was so very fond of, and the guards had let them pass without incident.

“That was a good voice!” Jester had said later when they had made camp for the evening. “I didn’t recognize it though. It didn’t sound like anyone we’d met before.”

It hadn’t been the first time Fjord had disguised himself during the trip, or had adopted a different manner of speaking. The same had been true of Jester, who had a fair bit of skill hiding her own accent, when needs had required, of adopting a rougher tone of voice or a smoother one depending on who they were talking to.

“My former captain, Vandren, he spoke that way,” Fjord had told her, resisting the urge to start picking at his tusks again like he tended to do when he was feeling anxious. “When I was working on the docks, after I left the orphanage, I could always pick his voice out of a crowd. He sounded…. Friendly. Trustworthy. Kind. It was years before he hired me and I started working under him properly, but I trusted him right away because, well, he _sounded_ like a good man.”

“Was he? Because sometimes people sound really nice and they turn out to be giant dicks instead.”

Fjord had thought about how patient Vandren had been with him when he had been learning the ropes, about how the entire crew had worked hard, about how the captain had been someone they _wanted_ to work hard for. “I think so.”

Jester had nodded firmly. “You are already kind and friendly and all that even without the voice, but it is a very good voice. I like it.”

“Why thank you Jester,” Fjord had drawled, and she had giggled at him. “What about the face? How was that?”

Jester had waved a hand dismissively. “Oh that was fine, if you like that sort of thing. I think you are very handsome just the way you are.”

Fjord had blushed then, turning his face away from her smile.

*******

_He’s under the water again, soft greenish light illuminating the wreck of a ship, his ship, wavering shadows dancing across the wrecked and rotted wood. There are schools of fish swimming through the coral, through the bones of his former crew, yellow-shite in the dim light. There’s not enough left of the bodies to tell who was who, except for one. One skeleton has a yellow orb pulsing underneath its ribs like a heart._

_“Vandren.”_

_The word rises to the surface in a cloud of bubbles as Fjord reaches for the orb, as he brings it to his chest, as he pushes—_

_Fjord’s in bed, half-naked, his bare chest slippery with sweat and Avantika’s above him, straddling him, riding him, one hand pressed against his chest._

_“Give it to me,” Avantika moans, and for an instant Fjord thinks she’s talking about sex, but her hand is pressing down on him harder, his ribs creaking under the strain like timbers on a ship. His heart is racing, but there is another beat beside it, slower and steadier._

_Fjord shakes his head and tries to raise his arms to push her away, but his movements are as heavy and slow as if he were still underwater._

_Avantika grins, her head tilting sharply with a crack as she presses her hand into his chest. Fjord can feel the flesh parting, feel the intrusion of her fingers._

_“Obey me, Fjord,” Avantika says, her grin as broken as her neck, her eyes gone the milky white of the blind or the dead. “Your captain is giving you an order.”_

“ _You’re not my captain!” Fjord shouts. “You never were!”_

_Avantika melts at his words, like a wax candle in a inferno, and now it’s Vandren above him, one hand in Fjord’s chest. His eyes, which had always looked at Fjord with kindness, acceptance, are cruel as he places his other hand around Fjord’s throat._

_“Thief!” Vandren hisses, his breath death and decay. “Give it back! Give it back!”_

_Fjord’s chest hurts and he can’t breathe and his heartbeat is thunder in his ears as loud as someone pounding on a door—_

Fjord opens his eyes and sits up in bed, breathing too hard, his chest aching. The air seems thin in his lungs, smells like salt and sweat and _her_ and he runs for the balcony doors, throwing them open so hard and fast that one rebounds and catches him in the shoulder, the pain dull and far away. All he can do is gasp and cling to the balcony railing, trying desperately to calm himself. His heart is racing, his blood roaring in his ears still, which is why he doesn’t realize there is anyone else in the room until he’s turning, instinct guiding him, falchion in his hand in a spray of seawater.

Jester looks at him, hands up, eyes wide. “I’m sorry!” she says quickly. “I couldn’t sleep, so I was going to go up on deck and draw a little, but then I heard you yelling, and I knocked and knocked but you didn’t answer me and I was worried so I—“

Jester looks so scared, and Fjord wants to apologize, wants to tell her that he’s all right, that it was just a nightmare, but the words weigh his tongue down, as heavy as gravestones in his mouth. He closes his eyes and dismisses the blade, focuses on calming his breathing. He hears Jester take a step closer, then a few more. When he opens his eyes again all he can see is her eyes shining violet in the moonlight, full of concern.

“Did you have a bad dream? Is it because of the—“ Jester makes a vague gesture at Fjord’s chest.

The first part of Fjord’s nightmare, the wreck of the ship, the garden of bones, the orb, that had happened, earlier that day. There had been a fight as well, with a wraith of a woman, with the creatures of the depths at her command. In the end the Mighty Nein had won, but Fjord had lost something, hadn’t he? Lost the hope that maybe his mentor was alive somewhere, that Fjord would ever see him again, hear that voice that had spoken kindly to him, hear it for _real_ and not just in imitation?

“Fjord?”

Fjord wants to answer her, but he can’t, he _can’t._ He doesn’t know which voice to use. He’s been using Vandren’s accent for so long, for so many reasons and one of those reasons had been in the foolish hope that his captain had still been alive, that somehow Fjord sounding like him meant he could still out there, in hiding maybe, but _alive_. But he’s not. He’s not alive, he hasn’t been, hasn’t been all this time, if Fjord uses that voice now it’ll be the voice of a dead man, but if he _doesn’t_ use that voice it’ll be the final nail in the coffin, won’t it?

“Fjord?” Jester takes another step, and she’s close enough that Fjord can see the freckles on her skin, like the sky filled with stars.

“He’s gone.” Fjord says, and he claps his hand over his mouth at the words, at the voice, the voice of the boy no one had wanted, his growing tusks digging into his lip and filling his mouth with the taste of blood. “Jess, he’s _gone_ ,” he says in the voice of the man that boy had become, the sound muffled by his hand. There are tears dripping down his face and blood dripping from his lip and Jester’s arms around him, pulling him close.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly, stroking his back gently. “I’m so sorry, Fjord.”

Fjord cries for what feels like a small eternity, until all that’s left is a hollow ache in his chest and shame and embarrassment churning in his gut. “I’m sorry,” he says in his own voice, the sound a familiar stranger. He pulls his head away from her shoulder, not looking at her, wiping the mess of his face on his sleeve.

“There is nothing to be sorry for,” Jester says firmly, and there’s her hand on his chin, tilting his face up, a tingle of healing magic as she runs a finger along his torn lip. “Nothing at all, not one little thing. All right?”

Fjord nods. “All right.” He doesn’t have the strength to argue with her, and maybe she’s right anyway.

Jester smiles then, small and tentative. “I haven’t heard that voice in a long time.”

“How- how do I sound?” Fjord asks, the words catching in his throat.

“The same as you always have,” Jester says, and she leans forward and gives him a kiss, slow and chaste and so tender that Fjord feels the tears welling up again. “You sound like a good man.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm angel-ascending on Tumblr and @angel_in_ink on Twitter if y'all want to stop by and say hi!


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